


HIRAETH.

by orphxus (impxria)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: quote by ocean vuong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28690236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impxria/pseuds/orphxus
Summary: ( to be a monster is to be a hybrid signal,a lighthouse:both shelter and warning at once. )
Relationships: Dante (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	HIRAETH.

**[ an earnest longing or desire ; a sense of regret.  
the feeling of longing for a home that no longer exists / or never was. ]**

“doesn’t this bother you?”

destruction and lost memories of better times. dark skies and barren streets once filled with life. this was home to many, and now, for the survivors, it is but a living nightmare-- an endless spiral and descent into nothingness.

“hm?” the devil walks leisurely through ruins and rubble, steps as light as a feather. “what’re you talking about?”

you study him carefully, his indifference almost off-putting. you’re not unfamiliar to such chaos, and you know he isn’t either. but still--

“i’m talking about everything around us, dante. it doesn’t bother you? doesn’t make you feel anything?”

his gait halts, and for the first time in what seems like hours, he looks you in the eye. there’s a grimness that resides in his expression, one you’re not used to seeing often. you hate it, and you don’t realize you reflect it. there are a million things going on in his mind-- future plans and old regrets that follow him to hell and back. there’s a tightness in his chest that he wants to be free of, but in this life and all the years he has ever lived, he knows it will not fade.

to exist means to carry the joys and burdens of the world; he cannot find a balance between the two.

tragedy has entangled itself into his existence. it comes and goes as it pleases, no matter what he does to stop it. he’s always been a fighter, but a steel resolve has rusted over the years. now, he is tired.

“just another day at the office.” he says with a shrug. he continues walking.

the response sends anger surging through your body, but you’re left speechless.

you watch him walk away, and this time, you do not follow.

( you forget that in the end,  
he is human, too. )

**[ & when god said to bury your demons, they did not think it to be literal.  
they fight over the text, these devout followers, while you fight the manifestations of so-called evil.  
you don’t bury them, the ones you fight.  
that would be too kind of you. ]**

the lines between human and demon are blurred. 

they shouldn’t be. it should be clear cut, black and white, obvious to anyone and everyone, but it isn’t.

“say,” he begins, legs propped up on the desk, “if you _had_ to, by any chance, slap a label on me, what would you pick?”

“what are you talking about?” you ask knowingly. “did you know you have fifteen pizza boxes in your trash?”

“whether i’m a human or demon. and it's not very polite to look through people’s trash, y’know.”

“it’s not looking through it if it’s visibly sprawled out.”

“good point. you gonna answer the question or are we gonna keep talking about pizza boxes?”

“you’re both. isn’t that the only answer? you’re literally both.” you pause when he raises a brow at the blunt response. “or are you asking which one i identify you with?”

“--which one do you see me as?”

the silence is four, five seconds long-- maybe even a minute or so. he doesn’t know. but it feels longer than it should, and that is more than enough for unease to settle into his heart.

he opens his mouth, wishing to swallow his anxiety, but the stones in his stomach are too heavy and he cannot take back the innocent question. what’s done is done; he just hopes to not carry yet another regret in his life, whether minor or major. your gazes meet, but he does not smile, does not make silly faces or remarks to change the topic. you watch each other, carefully, both cautious for different reasons.

“not all humans are born inherently good and not all demons are born inherently evil. some humans claim their innocence and have more blood on their hands than the other. who’s to judge either of them collectively instead of individually?”

the words leave your lips so flawlessly that he wonders if this is some crisis you’ve been contemplating for years, the decline of a staggering humanity that neither of you think you can save. he smiles first, then laughs, but what is it he finds humor in? he does not know.

“sounding real smart there,” he says, “almost didn’t recognize you for a moment.”

you smile in return, but it is laced with a twinge of exhaustion and sorrow.

the room is silent, and suddenly, you are both filled with a fatigue that weighs heavier than the bloodstained weapons you carry.

“you didn’t answer the question, though.” he mentions it again, presses for an answer. you don’t have one.

the desk creaks under your weight. you cross your legs, sit comfortably, and stare. it’s foreign, he thinks, the feeling of your eyes on him. he’d appreciate the attention otherwise, but tonight, it feels as if you are examining his soul, a muddled figure in your calloused hands. it is ugly, he knows this; he does not need such a reminder. it is distraught, tired, and filled with so much remorse that it is barely breathing. 

( how awful it is to live in such a way. )

“son of sparda,” the exhausted smile has never left your lips, and even now, it grows more in sadness, “what do you think you are?”

( at the very depths of man lie his origins, his being.  
but what does it mean, if in youth, you hide who you are? )

**[ the skeletons in your closet are warm, love.  
it could have been you. _it could have been you._ ]**

only victory exists in glory and gore. with blood all over your clothes, to look back is to plant seeds of regret and watch until they grow. they’ll bloom, eventually, and there is no greater pain than to watch it wrap around your spirit. 

how long has he been doing this? the thorns begin to surface. they are sharper than he thinks. 

( it hurts. soon, he will bleed. )

thorns can be cut. it takes time, as all things do. but they can be dulled until it is a pressure instead of a known pain.

“you grieve too quietly,” comes the murmur, your lips pressing gentle kisses against silver locks, “the world would be okay if it heard one more voice.”

he hums in thought, amused.

“don’t know about that. i don’t think the world could handle me.”

“maybe not,” you respond in quiet tones; he finds himself in awe at the tenderness in your eyes, “but i could.”

“wanna bet?”

you flick his forehead, his scowl meeting yours, but soon enough, you are laughing together.

“if i win, will you finally take out the trash?”

“what will i get if i win?”

“i don’t know. a sixteenth box of pizza?”

“-- _huh_. think i’ll take you up on that.”


End file.
